I Had a Dream
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: It was a nice dream: sweet, warm, reoccurring. Full of love and laughter and smiles. Bursting with tears and pain and regrets. It was a perfect painting of life, this dream of mine. Our life. (SxJ fluff)


_Disclaimer: Yadda yadda yadda. . . _

_  
Author's Note: I just keep getting more and more Mediator fanfic ideas. . . so expect one or two more one-shots from me in the near future. XD _

_That said, please enjoy!_

_(PS. I finally got to read book six! OMG, I laughed, I cried, I threw a fit, I cried some more, and then I squealed. It was SUCH a good book. . . !)_

**X**

**I Had a Dream**

**X**

I had a dream, once.

It was a nice dream: sweet, warm, reoccurring. Full of love and laughter and smiles. Bursting with tears and pain and regrets. It was a perfect painting of life, this dream of mine. Our life.

Yes, you were in it, did you know? Always. You were always, always there. Solid. Real. Wholly visible to the world.

And mine. Most importantly, you were mine.

In my dream, we were married: wed the moment I turned eighteen; became a legal adult. Not to say that it hadn't been preplanned- it had been. Since my seventeenth birthday, and your proposal. The ceremony took place in the chapel at school, none of that eloping crap. You were raised a strict catholic, after all. You insisted. But I didn't mind. I would have gone anywhere, done anything, if it meant we could be together forever. And you knew that.

Because I already had.

I remember how, in my dream, you smiled when I came down the aisle. You looked so happy, no matter how—you secretly confided in me—uncomfortable your tuxedo was. I knew the feelings. My gown, regardless of its beauty, had been incredibly prickly. Nevertheless, it didn't stop me from feeling oddly proud of myself: how many girls in this era could wear a white dress to her wedding and mean it? Though it had caused me nights of frustration, I had to admit that some of your nineteenth century morals weren't so bad.

Morals that (to my delight) no longer applied that evening. You showed me that very promptly.

In my dream, we were very busy. And poor. Since we were both still students at school—you training to be a doctor, and I, to become a therapist,— we didn't have the time or the funding for a honeymoon. But that was okay. Just being together was thrill enough: sharing an apartment, choking down each other's homemade meals, watching _Jaws_ five times in a row. . . and never catching a word of it.

It was paradise.

When I turned twenty-three in this dream, I discovered I was pregnant. I was so excited, I couldn't wait to tell you—but restrained myself in order to have fun. That day, while you were working your shift at the museum, I stashed clues around our home: nonalcoholic champagne in the fridge, a name book on the shelves, a pacifier beneath the coffee table. . .

Then I stood proudly in the corner, watching you intently from the moment you walked through the door— to the moment you fainted dead away. It only took you five minutes to put all of the pieces together, and the second you awoke (it didn't take that long), you pulled me into the most glorious embrace I think I'd ever experienced.

But dreams can change into nightmares, at times.

Our son was born early— six months and three days later. He did not live.

You asked me, as we held him and I tried my very best not to sob, what we should name him. I suggested to name him after you, because that was what they did, back in your time. You wrinkled your nose in disgust and firmly said no. No child deserved to be named "Hector," you snorted— why did I think you went by _Jesse_ all of the time? I laughed. . . and then I cried.

We buried our son, Simon Carlos de Silva, in the Mission cemetery next to your old tombstone.

. . . I remember how tenderly you loved me that night, promising that our son was in a better place. God, you'd whispered, just had a different plan for him than we did. He was very happy, you swore, with the Lord. I found this surprisingly comforting. . . and cherished the thought. For the first time, I truly considered embracing a religion.

In my dream, the months that followed crawled slowly by. Not entirely sad, but not cheerful either . . . bittersweet, I suppose. One morning, while I was watching the sunrise and holding a teddy bear we'd bought for Simon, you asked me if I wanted to throw away the baby supplies. You said that we didn't have to try to have any more children, if I wanted. That you were content so long as I was.

I will never forget how badly your voice shook when you spoke. Trembled with concern, sadness, remorse, frustration. . . I knew—knew deep down—that you really, _really_ wanted to have a family. I knew how much it was costing you to tell me what you were. I knew that it was killing you. . . watching me fall into despair whenever I noticed mobiles, toys, and bottles.

And finally. . . I knew I _wasn't_ happy. I knew that, just as deeply down, I wanted a family, too.

I told you no—we were keeping the supplies.

So we took them with us when we finally saved up enough money to move. The crib alone earned some strange looks from the neighbors when they realized we were childless, but we ignoring them. We were used to people thinking us strange. It came with our profession—as mediators, that is.

It was a lovely neighborhood— on the outskirts of Carmel nearest to the sea, but still close enough to go into town without any trouble. Close enough for Jesse to work at the hospital. Close enough for me to reach my offices in a reasonable amount of time. Close enough to see CeeCee and Adam and my mom and Andy. Close enough to visit Simon.

The house we purchased was old. Not as old as mom and Andy's, but still up there in age. Luckily, however, the misfortunes that took place there were few, so no ghosts lurked in the corners of the one-story's dusty rooms. Spike, who—much to my chagrin, for not even in my dreams did the stupid cat like me—we ended up taking with us, greatly enjoyed the expansive woods he now had to romp in. As he should have. For the pines grew taller here, the hibiscuses sweeter, and, to my delight, the poison oak too far off to find without searching hard.

Not that I searched.

It was a month after we'd settled down, on what the calendar proclaimed to be Simon's third birthday, that I learnt that I was pregnant again. I admit—I was excited, thankful. But more than anything I was scared. I told you as soon as I got home from work that night, emotion clogging my throat. I told you that I wanted this baby. I told you that I was terrified. I told you that I didn't want to lose another child.

You kissed me and promised it would be okay.

And it was.

Our second child was born almost exactly nine months later; a happy, healthy little girl we named Carmen. The day we brought her home was one of the best in my life—watching her sleep with her tiny hands curled around her big brother's bear brought tears to my eyes. But they were joyful tears.

The years following Carmen's birth passed quickly, in my dreams: a whirl of giggles and smiles, crayons and horsie-rides, accidents and scolding. And after she turned two, our family grew exponentially. On a warm spring night came our son, Rámon. A year later, you had to help me birth the twins Lucas and Dominic in our bedroom, because of a snowstorm. Last, but certainly not least, there was our youngest, Alexa, an early Christmas present.

In my dream, our house was bursting at the seams. It was always messy, always loud, always wild. I loved every minute of it.

We had our own traditions. You made us go to church every Sunday, no matter how much the children and I whined. I made everyone eat dinner together, because the rule had grown on me. Every year, we celebrated Simon's birthday, just as we did everybody elses'. Whenever a holiday rolled around, we made our own ornaments, and you would entertain us with stories about spirits we'd fought and battles we'd one. You taught our sons to be perfect gentlemen; our daughters to act like ladies. I showed them how to kick box and (when they were old enough) how to perform Portuguese exorcisms.

And whenever a ghost came knocking. . . we'd make a family project out of it. Because every single one of our children was a mediator. (The poor, poor kids.)

We were happy. We were so, so, very happy. And, sitting alone on the couch in front of the fireplace, I'd tell you so—how much everything meant to me, and how much I loved you. We'd kiss, then— ignoring the snickers and "ewwww!"s that chorused from around the corner as we did so. We'd put them back in bed, later, we decided, in this dream of mine.

This dream. . .

I no longer have it, anymore. That wonderful, perfect, poignant dream. And no longer do I long for its return. Because now, whenever I open my eyes—

"Mommy! Mommy, wake up! Alexa's pulling out Spike's hair again!"

"Mum, Papa says we have to go to church today. . ."

"Mom, Dom and Lucas keep calling me 'Car'! I told them I'm not an automobile! Make them stop!"

"Oh, stop whining _Car_. . . ow!"

"Mama! Me gots kitty!"

"Lexi, Dad told you to stop tha—oh, now look what you did!"

. . . —I find six pairs staring back at me: one hazel, one brown, two emerald, and two black.

"Excuse me," a mildly amused voice interrupts from the corner, causing each of the pj-clad children to freeze and turn around. Ah, the valiant return of number six. . . "But I believe I told you all to get dressed for mass?"

"But DAAAAAAAAAAAADDY!" they whine as one, clinging to me as I slowly sit up, rolling my eyes. The sun pours through the small bedroom windows, making the cheerful blue walls shine— the Californian fog having just disappeared outside. "We don't waaaaaaaaaanna!"

"Tough," you reply simply, walking over and plucking them, one by one, off of our bed. Rámon and Dominic get carefully thrown over your shoulders, Lucas clings to your neck, Carmen gets one arm, and Alexa gets the other. Then you grin, lean down and kiss me on the cheek.

"Good morning, querida. Better change quickly—church starts in forty five minutes!"

I smirk. "But Jesssseeeeeee. . ."

"No buts. You're going, and that's that."

But despite the fact that you're using your infamous "no nonsense" tone, you wink at me. Then, with a final kiss, you march out the door with our troublemakers— depositing them in their bedrooms to get ready for mass.

It's always then, as I watch you walk away with our hoard of laughing children in toe, that I remember why I no longer need to dream.

Because my dream. . . is now reality.


End file.
